


finally

by v3ilfire



Series: between fields of fire and miles to go [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 14:23:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8147303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: No one needed to know that "official Warden business" involved a small island off the coast of Rivain and a former Antivan Crow, or that work ended strictly at sundown when Zevran put a drink in Camilla's hand and trailed kisses wherever it suited him that day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> first prompt for zevran week, barely met.

A week before invitations to the five-year anniversary of the Archdemon’s fall were sent off, King Alistair Theirin penned a letter to a dear friend who would sooner throw a birthday party for a Genlock than attend anything resembling a noble affair. Within three days of receiving it, Warden-Commander Camilla Cousland packed up her research and vanished into obscurity, citing ‘official Warden business’ as the cause for her hasty retreat. No one needed to know that said ‘business’ involved a small island off the coast of Rivain and a former Antivan Crow, or that work ended strictly at sundown when Zevran put a drink in her hand and trailed kisses wherever it suited him that day. 

On the hottest night of their stay, they lay half-dressed and half-asleep on the floor, sprawled out over pillows and praying to each other for rain or breeze or at least death, if they felt dramatic. Under Zevran’s head, Camilla’s stomach rose and fell with the waves just outside their unassuming little shack. She played with his hair, running her fingers tenderly against his head to the slow beat of the ocean. 

The waves, the heat, a shack on the beach, a whorehouse on the coast, air thick with either sweat or sex or booze or  _ all of it _ ; sleep muddled it all until Zevran woke with a painful longing twisting in the hollows between his ribs. He’d forgotten himself long enough to remember the wisp of a child who once wished desperately to believe in the very illusion he was being trained to sell. 

But that feeling no longer belonged to him. Camilla’s breathing filled him back up, sweet and lazy, until he decided he missed the feeling of her fingers in his hair far too much to let her stay asleep.

So, he woke her with a kiss.

Camilla muttered something while his lips lingered on her jaw and it took him a moment to register the sludge of words as Antivan.   
_ "Vete a dormir, amor, _ ” she said. Her accent was still terrible, but  _ braska _ she was learning for him and every time he remembered that, lightning struck all his thoughts to oblivion.    
“That would require passing up the opportunity to kiss you.” Her laugh was dampened by the air and the sleep still caught in her throat. As his mouth continued to move down her neck, she ran her hands through his hair and over his shoulders, and she pressed him down against her and just held him there until he grew still and placated again. 

The first drops of rain drummed against the roof, and they melted into each other out of sheer relief.    
“Finally,” Camilla sighed.   
_ Finally _ , Zevran echoed to himself. The boy in the whorehouse, laid to rest.  _ Finally. _


End file.
